


Tomorrow When the World is Free

by BisexualRoger (HyperPluviophile)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Apocalypse, Chronic Illness, Climate Catastrophe, Eventual Smut, Graphic Description, Heavy Angst, M/M, Pandemics, Poly queen, Possible Character Death, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:01:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyperPluviophile/pseuds/BisexualRoger
Summary: The world is ending.Brian tries to stay sane, Freddie tries to stay positive, Roger tries not to feel anything at all, John just wants to keep everyone safe, and together they just about survive.But when the apocalypse lands on their doorstep will they be able to stay together, or will they be torn apart by a world gone horribly wrong?
Relationships: John Deacon/Brian May/Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor
Comments: 34
Kudos: 47





	1. The Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So... Everything's a little kind of terrible right now huh?
> 
> Aha, I began writing this back in early June, but after 12k or so words I abandoned it. But now university has been cancelled it's not as though I have anything else to be doing, so it's been resurrected. Idk if anyone will want to read anything like this right now, but I hope that the people who do read it like it <3
> 
> Oh and this chapter has a warning for attempted suicide

**“These words changing nothing, But your body remains. And there's no room in this hell, There's no room in the next, And our memories defeat us, And I'll end this direst. But does anyone notice? But does anyone care?... But does anything matter If you're already dead?”**   
**(Early Sunsets over Monroeville)**

There’s a weight to Brian’s footsteps as he leaves laboratory 3974 for what will hopefully be the last time. On account of the nine hour shifts and the sweltering afternoons, which are now the norm in London, he’s used to feeling painfully lethargic at the end of the day, but tonight’s burden has little to do with that.

Nor is it linked to the half full water canister sloshing on his back. Truth be told he’s not exactly sure why he’s still got it. It’s not as though he’ll be needing it anymore. In fact, this morning he’d considered leaving the rest of it for someone who might need it, maybe a sick friend unable to make it to the water fountains or a parent struggling to come to terms with the sudden new nine hour shifts away from their children, but then he’d realised that there’s no one left in the city that he truly knows.

So the water’s coming with him. At least until he reaches his destination, then it’s getting left behind along with his rucksack and all his papers. Even if his body isn’t recovered afterwards, hopefully the police will find these and put two and two together. Who knows? Maybe they’ve got children who need the water. He hopes so.

It’s not a long journey. He’d turned the pros and cons of artificially prolonging it over and over in his head, but ultimately decided that spending any more time than necessary reaching his destination would only make things harder. So he hurries as best he can, even with his limbs seemingly turning to lead with each step.

Strange. He’d envisioned this moment many times over the last few weeks, and yet the sight of the bridge, the sudden appearance of cold stone bricks rising high above the nameless river, sends a jolt of adrenaline through him.

Heart pounding and hands shaking, Brian drops the rucksack and takes a brief glance over his shoulder. Around him the street is surprisingly empty. There’s still about fifteen minutes before curfew is officially enforced, but you’d think that after several waves of suicidal epidemics the police would be monitoring places like this more carefully. But then again perhaps they don’t believe that anyone would resort to such an archaic method.

Regardless, the place is empty and that’s exactly what he’d been hoping for.

Numbly Brian grasps at the railing and hoists himself over the top, onto the small stone ledge, barely wide enough for both his feet to fit comfortably. From this precarious position the water beneath him looks even more dizzyingly distant than it had done from the pavement, so much so that he has to choke down the bile rising in his throat and blink a few nervous tears out of his eyes.

As little as it does to help, he takes as deep a breath as he can and reminds himself that there’s worse ways to go. Falling will be far quicker than being gutted by the countryside bandits, or choking to death on his own disease riddled phlegm, or starving. Not to mention it’ll be on his own terms. Plus if he steps off this bridge now it’ll be final. A decided full stop in a world whose only certainty is turmoil and pain.

The thought of stepping out into the abyss, and finally putting an end to himself, is petrifying. But it’s the right thing to do.

And yet... Although Brian knows that logically there’s no reason to linger on the edge, he can’t help but let his thoughts drift to his mother. Will they tell her? Or will they be too busy? He’s not even sure they deliver post to that part of the country anymore. He hopes she won’t feel too guilty for bringing him into this world only to have his life snatched away by war and disease.

Despite himself, despite all his arguments in favour of ending his life, Brian feels a painful twinge of self-pity. Not for the grown man he is today but for the baby he once was. That child didn’t deserve this. But then, he wonders, does anyone ever deserve the hand they’re given? How many people far better than him have suffered far more over the course of history? From famines to floods to fires, why should he be any different? It’s a well known fact that life isn’t fair. He feels gross for mourning the future he was never owed in the first place.

No. He needs to stop. If he spends any longer agonising over his fate he’ll be picked up by a night patrol. Perhaps if he wasn’t an employee of laboratory 3974 they might turn a blind eye and let him jump, but alas, from his employee status alone Brian’s too important to be allowed to die.

Turning his gaze up to the heavens he steels himself to jump. Above him the sky is an orange hazy mess, devoid of stars. Shame. Out of everything on earth, his mother aside, it’s the stars he’s going to miss the most. A long time ago he’d dreamed of one day flying out to see them up close, and now he’ll die under their watchful eyes. Under the gaze of the cold silent sentinels who are impassive to his plight but there nonetheless.

He keeps his eyes on the orange glow and hovers his right foot out over the void.

“It’s tempting, isn’t it?”

The voice sounds so suddenly it nearly startles Brian into falling off the ledge. His balance lost for a moment, he finds himself instinctively flailing, hands grasping first at nothing and then finally securely back onto the railing behind him. With his heart practically in his throat, but his feet firmly secured again, he snaps his head around. There on the pavement behind is the speaker. A slight, painfully thin man with dark hair, clad in a uniform he doesn’t recognise.

“I’ve thought about it myself, more than once actually,” continues the stranger, snorting with something that’s not quite amusement. Anxiety perhaps. He takes a careful step closer to the railing but makes no sudden moves towards Brian. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

With the shock of almost falling still rioting through his body, Brian can’t reply, the man thus taking his silence as an affirmative. In one fluid movement, he swings his legs over the railing to perch precariously on the ledge.

“But you wouldn’t want to jump from here,” he continues, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather, “It’s not high enough.”

Swallowing down both the lump in his throat and the shock at being so unexpectedly approached, Brian finally manages to choke out, “Please. Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”

After having psyched himself up to jump he can’t have someone talk him down now. It already hurts too much. He just wants it to be over.

“I’m not trying to make this harder. On the contrary, I’m trying to help you,” replies the man. He gestures down at the rushing waters. “If you jump from here you might die, but you might also hit the rocks. And that’s not accounting for how shallow it is. I’d say you’ve probably only got a fifty-fifty chance of dying,” he sighs, “And I suppose the only thing worse than having to live through this would be having to go through it without a working spine.”

Brian feels himself balk. Officially, there’s a weekly ration for those unsuited to the gruelling nine hour factory shifts, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t… rumours. Rumours that he hadn’t considered until now.

True, he’s exhausted. Utterly drained and petrified to the point of near emotional paralysis. But nowhere near as weary or terrified as he’d be if this jump went catastrophically wrong, and he suddenly found himself completely at the mercy of the state. What would they do to him, were he to outlive his usefulness? The stranger’s right; He only gets one shot at this. And if he doesn’t die the first time, then…

It’s bizarre. In barely a sentence, a total stranger has given him a single reason not to die tonight. A logical as opposed to emotional one, too. And it still manages to be absolutely devastating.

“I can’t. I can’t keep doing this,” Brian’s voice is barely a whisper as he returns his gaze to the sky, a hot tear burning its way down his cheek. “It’s too much… It’s too painful.”

There’s silence. In order to avoid making eye contact with the stranger, he keeps his eyes carefully on the orange glow, allowing the tears to fall freely. Nothing and no one on earth has ever felt so hurt. At least, that’s how it seems.

He’s not sure how long he spends weeping, but when the unknown man finally speaks there’s a notable pang of sadness in his voice. That, and a soft sincerity that Brian hadn’t quite noticed earlier.

“Do you have a name, dear?” he asks.

Brian risks removing a hand from the railing to wipe his eyes. “Brian. Brian May.”

It feels odd to speak it out loud. After so long identifying himself as labourer 3991 from laboratory 3974 his name might as well be a foreign language. Funny, the records will have him down as 3974. When he’s gone it’ll be as though there never was a Brian May.

“It’s nice to meet you, I’m Freddie Mercury.”

Another pause. Brian’s legs are starting to shake as they fight to keep him balanced on the ledge. Around him the wind whistles and the river continues to rush away under his feet.

When Freddie speaks again it’s slowly and deliberately, each word carefully weighted before being spoken.

“Listen, Brian, I’m not going to tell you that things will get better. Mostly because I don’t believe they will and it doesn’t seem fair to lie to you. But one way or another there’ll be an end to this madness, at least give yourself the chance to see it.”

Brian says nothing. As a counter argument, his brain weakly supplies the idea that life could get far worse if he doesn’t end things now, but it doesn’t help.

“Being alive will kill you anyway,” adds Freddie, “There’s no need to rush it. And not like this.” His voice pitches up high towards the end of the sentence, betraying a despair that he’s clearly desperately trying to restrain.

Through his own despair, a heavy weight settles in Brian’s chest. A sickening guilt almost, at what he must be putting this poor unknown samaritan through.

“I… I don’t want to jump, you know,” he says. At the very least he owes it to Freddie to be honest. “If I had a choice, I... But… I don’t know what else to do.”

“Darling, you do have a choice!” implores Freddie, “You can either jump from this totally unsuitable bridge and maybe die, but more likely end up making the end of days far harder for yourself than they’d be otherwise, or you can come down from here with me, and we could go back to my apartment, maybe share a glass of wine? How does that sound?”

Despite everything, Brian finds himself giving a hollow chuckle. “They- They don’t make wine anymore.”

For the first time since the conversation began, he tears his gaze away from the river. Beside him, Freddie’s eyes are damp, and he’s gazing up at Brian with something that’s almost desperation. Nevertheless, he offers Brian a warm grin. “Not officially, no,” he says, “But I won’t tell if you won't.”

Nodding, Brian spares one last glance for the water below him. While the laugh had been like a brief ray of sun through clouds, he doesn’t exactly feel better. But it’s as though someone has closed a window. Turned off a light. No matter how hard he tries he can’t rationalise jumping. Not here. Not now. Not anymore. Besides, he’s not sure when or how, but suddenly the world doesn’t feel quite so agonising. As if the famine and the wars and disease have disappeared temporarily, leaving only him and Freddie and the oblivious river.

Clenching his hands tightly against the railing, Brian takes a deep breath. And then he shuffles awkwardly back around to face the pavement, legs shaking with the effort from having stood there for so long.

Beside him, Freddie nimbly scales his way back up onto the bridge before leaning over to offer Brian a hand up. From there the physicist finds himself pulled with some remarkable force over the top and back up onto the relative safety of the empty road. With his feet firmly on solid ground, Brian feels dizzyingly hysterical. Almost as if his feet are still dangling over the water. He doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry or scream or do all three. Life feels so fragmented. So up in the air.

It feels ridiculous to still be alive. Whether from the strain of keeping himself balanced for such a long time or just the emotional weight of it all, he finds himself uncontrollably trembling.

Then, when Freddie pats him somewhat awkwardly on the shoulder, he realises that the other man is shaking, too. Next time he tries he’ll be sure not to linger, he decides numbly, so that he won’t risk hurting anyone but himself. He’ll pick a more suitable bridge, too.

But that’s next time. For now he has to deal with living another day.

With a laugh almost as hysterical as the one Brian can feel building inside himself, Freddie says, “I suppose we ought to get a move on, else the police will be out here to reprimand us for being out past curfew and then we’ll have lost the entire evening.” He tilts his head in the direction of the Kensington district, a silent invitation for Brian to follow him.

Brian hesitates, but only for a second. Once upon a time he might’ve felt more apprehensive about entering a total strangers house, but now… Well, if Freddie ultimately turns out to be dangerous (although he highly doubts it, now he’s got a better view of the man’s tiny physique) then he can’t be a worse fate than starvation or disease. What’s truly the worst that could happen if Brian shares a few drinks with his good samaritan?

Retrieving his rucksack and water canister from the pavement, Brian gives Freddie a small nod and falls into step with him, abandoning the bridge. Next time he'll do it right... Next time...


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey :) Thank you ever so much to everyone who commented on the last chapter. Truthfully it means so much to me, especially since I was doubting whether or not this would have an audience. Just, thank you so much <3 xx 
> 
> I've decided that I'm going to try and update this every other Tuesday, so you'll hopefully get one chapter every two weeks ^_^

**“Panic on the streets of London, Panic on the streets of Birmingham. I wonder to myself- Could life ever be sane again?...Burn down the disco, Hang the blessed DJ, Because the music that they constantly play- It says nothing to me about my life” (Panic)**

Despite how late it is, it’s still baking hot when Brian finally leaves the laboratory. On paper he should’ve left half an hour ago, but unexpected conversations, unfinished paperwork, and an overall unwillingness to leave the cool shade of the building means he only has fifteen minutes or so to make it home before curfew falls.

Which means he’s probably going to have to take the bridge shortcut. Having not been past it for several years now (not out of any particular desperate avoidance, but because he can usually cut it out of his evening commute without being especially inconvenienced) he’s surprised when it comes into view, surrounded by fencing. So thick and so high the barrier prevents him from even glimpsing the river below.

 _No point_ , thinks Brian. _It’s totally unsuitable for that_. Nevertheless he stops just for a brief moment to have a closer look at it. The top is laden with cameras, microphones, and all manner of surveillance equipment in order to deter any would-be climbers. As previously observed, the river is completely unsuitable for any sort of escape, live or otherwise, and it’s sort of a pity that this view has been closed off forever on account of some sort of paranoia on the part of the authorities.

With a small moment of sadness for the loss of what was - despite his morbid connection to this place - one of the few remaining remnants of the time before, he continues on his way, anxious to make it home before the curfew sirens sound. If he’s caught out after nine o’clock he might lose his extra rations for the week, or worse he might be detained. And if that happens the police won’t bother sending his boyfriends a memo.

The thought of the three of them - Deaky chewing nervously on his fingernails, Roger pacing frantically, and Freddie threatening to march down to the cells to force them to give him back - is enough to make him hurry up.

From the bridge he passes several streets until the Kensington gateway appears. It being already quite late there’s no queue to enter, and it takes less than a minute for the cameras to verify his pass and face before the metal bars slide apart to let him in.

The typically most time consuming part of his journey done, it’s only another ten minutes before his house comes into view. Once upon a time the white Georgian terrace might’ve been an elegant place to live; with its three stories, wide bay windows and delicately fenced front garden. In the before times it likely would’ve housed more than one family. Now it’s home just to the four of them, and it resides on a decidedly un-elegant, eerily empty street.

Doubtless when more ruralist refugees have been processed it’ll be more densely populated, but for now there’s no neighbours - and by extension not even the faintest hush of chatter - to greet Brian as he pushes his way through the front door and into the cool darkness.

For a dizzying moment he stands in pitch black. Eyes burning and lungs stilling as his body adjusts to the sudden change in atmosphere. Only after a few seconds does the interior of the house begin to shift into focus, bringing with it a shadowy but unmistakable figure, recognisable even as it strides down the hall towards him.

“Fred,” Holding his arms out instinctively, Brian wastes no time pulling the smaller man into a tight embrace. Even after all these years there’s nothing like a hug from Freddie (no matter how sweaty or uncomfortable) to ease him at the end of the day. Of course it does nothing for the still oppressive heat, only somewhat lessened by the blackout blinds, or the general horrors of the world, but it’s enough to soothe the minor stresses and pains away.

It doesn’t last. As the pair pull away Brian instantly knows that something isn’t quite right. The smile Freddie is giving him is too forced. Even in the dark of the hall it’s clear that the joy isn’t reaching his eyes. Eyes which keep flicking unsubtly back down the hall in the direction of the living room. It suddenly occurs to Brian that despite presumably being the last one home the house is disturbingly quiet, lacking even the typical low hum of evening chatter.

He follows Freddie’s gaze down the corridor nervously. “Rog and Deaky home?”

Freddie nods. “Oh yes. John’s been here since I came home and Roger walked in about thirty seconds before you did.”

The upbeat note in his voice lands just short of believable.

“Right,” Scanning his lover’s face for any further clues, Brian finds himself drawing a blank. Surely if there were something truly wrong he’d already know? But then again, he’s not so sure. Naturally it’s with no small amount of trepidation that he follows Freddie down the hall in the direction of the living room.

For all the tragedies in the world the normality of simply having a room specifically for “living” (not to mention a kitchen, too) has always struck Brian as odd. For while their sofa in particular may be stained and ragged, and its accompanying coffee table may be held together by various rusted nails and the off bit of duct tape, their mere existence in a world so utterly gone wrong is almost laughable. The objects are far from the height of comfort, of course, but it’s interesting (at least to Brian) what is and isn’t in short supply now the end of the world is imminent. When survival itself becomes a challenge people forget the finer things. The instruments, the toys… the matching living room set that had meant so much in a time where fresh food and good health had been abundant… All either abandoned or forgotten in the chaos.

Strange, how there’s no water while the world has pouffles and sofas to spare.  
Hence it’s perhaps fitting that it’s in the illusionary bubble of normality created by such objects that Brian finds the source of tonight's tension.

Although large enough for all four of them, the sofa is currently only occupied by John, face peaceful as he lies sleeping, but not so much as to conceal his pallid complexion or the deep purple bags under his eyes.

While they all rotate between periods of remarkably good health and malaise, it hasn’t escaped Brian’s notice that John in particular seems more worse for wear recently than the rest of them. At first Brian had thought he was imagining it, but the sight of his youngest boyfriend curled just ever so slightly in on himself while appearing little better than death warmed over is enough to confirm his suspicions.

Further, it finally establishes the root of tonight’s strange atmosphere. Freddie’s on edge because he’s worried about John, and the house is silent despite being full because no one wants to disturb the peace that the young engineer so clearly needs.

Anxiety bubbles in Brian’s chest. Exhaustion is one thing, but all too often that’s how it starts. You can be “just a little tired” one day and be dead the next. And without emergency services to turn to, the period between those two states of being can be agonising. He turns to Freddie, but his eldest boyfriend has already perched himself on the armrest, a hand gently ghosting over John’s forehead.

Having not raised the matter in the hallway, despite clearly sharing Brian’s concerns, it’s apparent that for whatever reason, Freddie doesn’t wish to address their youngest boyfriend's current condition. His desire to not speak of such serious matters is understandable. Nevertheless, Brian can’t help but feel the faintest flare of desperate anger. If there’s something to be concerned about no good will come from brushing it under the rug.

Either way, it’s clear he’s not going to get any sort of discussion out of Freddie, so Brian abandons the lounge to instead look for the only one of his boyfriends currently unaccounted for. He doesn’t have to search too thoroughly; the sound of something heavy and metallic hitting the ground, followed by an abrupt, muffled curse, is enough to let him know that Roger is in the kitchen.

It’s with a chaste but sincere kiss that the blonde greets him. His standard issue glasses are still perched on the end of his nose, and the bun he had hastily tied together this morning is unravelling down his back, however beyond these slight dishevelments he seems no more unkempt than usual. If anything he’s borderline chipper.

“Alright?” he asks, a lopsided grin on his face and a suspiciously dented saucepan tucked under one arm.

“Fine,” replies Brian, immediately following it with “Does John seem… off colour to you?” Before Roger has the chance to interject.

Roger shrugs. “Not particularly. No more than usual.”

“Are you sure?” presses Brian. In his current state of unease, he can’t help but find the blond's flippancy aggravating, if not borderline offensive. “Don’t you think he looks tired?”

“It’s bloody boiling out there,” To add insult to injury Roger has the audacity to give a snort of laughter. “Of course he’s tired.”

“Rog…” Rubbing the bridge of his nose with a sigh, Brian uses all his remaining energy to frown at his boyfriend. Apocalypse or not, he doesn’t appreciate being patronised. Especially not by Roger, the man being both younger than him and the one person in the house who ought to understand the dangers of ill health at a time like this.

For all his efforts though, Roger pays his exasperation no mind. Instead he tosses the packet in his hands aside and reaches out, fingers twisting firmly around Brian’s collar as he slowly and gently pulls the older man into a kiss.

“You worry too much,” he murmurs, lips brushing softly against Brian’s.

Despite himself, despite his anger and his fear, Brian feels his cheeks flush. Having his valid concerns dismissed as just worries doesn’t do anything to lessen his irritation, but it’s difficult to remain angry when his mind is… elsewhere.

“There’s a lot to worry about,” He forces himself to say. It isn’t fair that Roger should be able to close down the discussion by virtue of being irresistible, but when the younger man pulls him into a deeper kiss he knows he’s fighting a losing battle.

“Exactly,” grins Roger, eventually breaking out of the embrace and leaving Brian even more overheated and sweaty than he had been previously. “Out of all the things to worry about, John being tired should be at the bottom of the list.”

He lets go of Brian’s collar.

“Worry about famine or our impending doom, if you absolutely have to worry about something.” He turns to make his way back to the cooker before abruptly turning back again. “That was a joke,” he clarifies sternly, “Don’t do that.”

“Who’s worrying?” Freddie’s voice precedes his arrival. “Apart from everyone, about everything, and rightly so?”

No longer hovering over John, he crosses the kitchen to instead wrap his arms firmly around Roger’s middle. Clinging on even when the blond begins emptying various packets into the pot on the cooker.

“No one,” huffs Roger, “No one’s worrying because it’s a bloody waste of time.”

Freddie rolls his eyes as he flashes Brian a knowing smile from behind Roger’s back. “If you say so, darling.”

Still wound tightly around Roger, he cranes his neck at the now steaming saucepan with a poorly concealed grimace. “What’re we having tonight?”

Roger gives the pot a pointed stir. “Barbecue flavoured protein cubes, grown in the finest Birmingham labs.”

“Delightful. And when do they expire?”

“Um…” The blonde winces, throwing both of his boyfriends an apologetic look, as if it’s his fault their food is so poor. “Twenty sixty-two”

Letting go of Roger in order to clutch a hand dramatically to his chest, Freddie gasps. “But I’ll be fifty by then! You mean to tell me the government is putting more effort into prolonging the life span of-”

“They were saying on the radio that in Saltaire they’ve got chickens,” interrupts Brian. He’s not entirely sure why he feels compelled to mention it, the information being useless to their current predicament “And solar powered green houses where they can grow fresh vegetables.”

Theatrical outrage gone in an instant, Freddie waves a hand dismissively. “And they were also saying that there have been reports of cannibalism in places like Hawkshead and Painswick. Trust me, I’d much rather eat nothing but protein cubes for the rest of my life than risk being eaten alive in one of those godforsaken villages.”

From his position still bent over the saucepan, Roger hums in agreement.

And despite himself, despite the fact that he hadn’t expected that knowledge to be of particular interest to either of them, Brian feels something of a sinking feeling in his chest. Not that he’d anticipated Freddie and Roger eagerly dropping everything to begin their immediate escape plans… and yet. His sudden disappointment tells him that this is what a significant part of himself had wanted to hear.

Not wanting to make his now even lower mood apparent to either of his boyfriends, he decides to leave them to it in favour of checking on John. Although far from being high class chefs, Freddie and Roger can now at least be trusted to boil protein cubes without setting the kitchen alight.

Back in the living room, John is still sprawled on the sofa, eyes closed and lips ever so slightly parted. Still just as asleep as he had been when Brian first arrived.

It takes almost all of Brian’s restraint to resist the urge to sweep the few stray strands of hair away from John’s face, but even as he decides to give in, the younger man’s eyes flicker open. Upon spotting the physicist beside him his face brightens.

“Brian,” Stifling a yawn, he smiles warmly at his boyfriend. Then, movements just a little stilted, he shuffles somewhat upright to create an empty space beside him. “When did you get in?”

“About ten minutes ago.” Easing himself down onto the cushions (bones popping painfully loudly as he does so) Brian gives his youngest boyfriend a peck on the lips, trying his best not to make it obvious that he’s frantically scanning John up and down for any signs of obvious injury. “How was the workshop?”

If John notices Brian’s concern, he has the courtesy not to show it. “Not too bad,” he shrugs “Same old, really.”

He stifles another yawn. There’s still an obvious air of exhaustion clinging to him, but Brian has to admit that he does look better. His eyes aren’t quite so sunken, and some of the colour has returned to his cheeks. Further, the lighting in the living room is far from honest, the only source of light being a small energy conserving bulb in the corner. From certain angles it can exaggerate the worst of a person’s features while concealing the more effervescent ones. Hm.

As Brian watches John settle against him (the engineer seemingly poised to take another nap) he wonders if perhaps Roger had been right after all.

And then, suddenly, inexplicably, as if following Brian’s train of thought, John perks back up again, his eyes alight. “I’ve got some good news though.”

“What?”

The mechanic doesn’t reply. He just gives Brian a sly sideways glance, eyebrows quirking up in the direction of the coffee table.

Confused, Brian scours the surface in question, but he’s unable to immediately locate anything out of the ordinary. There’s the typical stacks of papers, the odd pencil, a half full water canister that (based on the identification number printed on the outside) must belong to Freddie, and a familiar rectangular box that-

Oh.

“You fixed it?” Gasps Brian. Leaning forward he slowly and carefully picks up the radio, face splitting into a grin as he turns it over delicately in his hands. “Deaky, you’re an absolute genius.”

John beams. “I know. It took several lunch breaks to fix, but I think it should be alright now. As long as no one decides to toss it out the window again.” He punctuates this with a pointed look towards the kitchen, and the sounds of Freddie and Roger cackling hysterically at goodness knows what.

“Don’t worry,” chuckles Brian, “I think Rog’s learned his lesson. And if he does toss it again I’ll kill him for you.”

Carefully placing the radio back down into its usual spot atop the coffee table, he twists a few dials experimentally. The disruption to their evening ritual of listening to the radio after dinner had been felt by all of them in the past weeks. Even Roger, who had whined for months that the radio was increasingly broadcasting “Nothing but drivel” had lamented its absence. So to have it back in his hands, something that’s not only theirs but an integral part of their limited private lives, means the world to Brian.

Just holding it is like watching the sun break through a cloud. A temporary moment of respite in a never ending deluge of misery. And for a second Brian almost forgets that they’re all borderline starving and a few months away at most from total disaster.

After a few more minutes of fiddling, the machine whirs to life, a happy burst of static preceding the telltale jingle of the BBC night show.

They’re just in time for it. Over his shoulder Brian gives John a smile.

Not that this lasts. Even as he’s sitting back down the music fades, giving way to a monotonous voice that unceremoniously declares-

_“Welcome to the BBC news at ten. Tonight’s headlines: An estimated two thousand migrants have been detained off the coast of Puerto Rico after authorities rescued a boat caught in a rogue storm. Negotiations are now beginning between the Northern American government and the Puerto Rican government for the safe return of the refugees to the States. Meanwhile, sources in Germany are reporting a further two million deaths from Rezaffalitefluenza, with the European Union rumoured to be in turmoil, more on this later...”_

Brian glances at John. The engineer is leaning forwards, eyes fixed intently on the radio and one hand propped under his chin. If the news frightens him, he gives no outward indications of it beyond the slight crease in his brow. How he manages to absorb wave after wave of tragedy without so much as a grimace is something Brian will never understand. Even as he himself listens he can feel his stomach turning. Nausea accompanied by a cold shaking sweat that brings tears to his eyes.

_“...Confirmed that South Korea is officially closing its borders. No word yet on the fate of English journalists currently residing there, but a statement is expected later today.”_

He’s not quite sure why he’d been so eager for the radio to be repaired. Perhaps they’d have been better off without it. Life is hard enough without Brian’s incredibly tentative grip on emotional stability being ruined by the relentless bleakness of the evening news.

Even the arrival of Freddie and Roger with dinner, which gives him an excuse to switch over to BBC 4’s evening music show, doesn’t lift him from his newfound state of panic. What other tragedies is he missing by not listening? Have more people drowned off the coast of the Isle of Wight? Are the water wars still raging? Are the citizens of Australia burning alive as he sits here?

It’s only when his knuckles start to hurt that he realises he’s been clutching at his cutlery with an almost vice-like grip. He lowers his gaze to his plate. If he hadn’t already been put off his dinner by the news then the sight of those beige lumps stewing quietly in a pool of oily red sauce would’ve been enough to do so. Not that he’d been especially hungry to begin with anyway, but still.

Subtly pushing his dinner away, he tunes back into the conversation.

“What about you, Rog?” asks John, voice raised slightly in order to be heard over the sudden blaring chorus of Rule Britannia crackling from the radio. “Are they still talking about making you work overnight shifts?”

Roger rolls his eyes so hard they look as though they’re about to disappear back into his skull. “Don’t even ask,” he stabs a protein cube with his fork but doesn’t bring it to his mouth. “They say it won’t come to that. But if negotiations with Greenland go tits up, and knowing the government they probably will, then...”

Brian’s blood runs cold. “How long-” His voice sticks in his throat. “How long do they think we’ve got now-?”

Silence. Beside him, Brian feels Roger lower his cutlery, the biologist presumably weighing up his answer very carefully. He almost gets away with it, too, but as the seconds stretch on, it's clear that whatever he knows about the spread of Rez doesn’t bode well for any of them. In taking so long to reply he as good as confirms the worst.

“They don’t know,” he says eventually. And it’s so very clearly a bold-faced lie, but the tight constriction in Brian’s chest prevents him from calling Roger out on it. “But there’s no point fretting,” he adds quickly, a hasty laugh escaping his lips,“The borders are shut, it’s not as though Rez is going to learn to swim.”

Beside Brian, John gives a snort of laughter. How he can see the humorous side to their very likely imminent demise is beyond Brian.

Freddie too seems to disapprove. Giving the pair each a not so subtle frown, he sits up a little higher on the sofa and declares, “Exactly. And even if it does get here, which I doubt it will, we’re in the best possible position to survive this. We’re all young, we’re still reasonably useful. It’s not like any of us are frail and infirm. If it comes here they won’t just leave us to rot. They need us. They’ll work to keep us alive.”

The certainty with which he says it makes Brian wonder who he’s trying to convince.

“And at the very least, if we do die of Rez we won’t need to eat any more protein cubes ever again,” he finishes, this last point just as deadly serious as the previous ones.

“God," sighs Roger, “I tell you what I was thinking earlier- did any of you ever get to try fish and chips?” He pushes his empty plate away gingerly. “Fucking hell, I’d give my right eye for fish and chips.”

“Hmm. I’m not sure about my eye,” muses Freddie, “Perhaps all the toes on my left foot instead.”

“That’s very specific. Why your left foot?” asks John.

“Well, I might need my right one.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

Which is how a conversation about the current devastating pandemic somehow manages to devolve into a steadily mounting competition of who’d be willing to give what body part for which specific lost delicacy. Which naturally peaks when John casually states he’d give his cock for a year's supply of cheese on toast, prompting Freddie and Roger to passionately list all the reasons why they wouldn’t let him.

This isn’t what Brian’s focusing on though. On the contrary, his attention is still on Rez. And on the radio’s earlier report about the devastation caused by it in mainland Europe. Coupled together, these two have his imagination running riot. Corpses in the streets. Dying surrounded by the tearful faces of his boyfriends who, in staying to look after him, have condemned themselves to a similarly painful fate. Or even worse, he himself as the last one left alive, the bodies of his lovers all around him as his brain cooks inside his skull and his intestines fall out of his mouth.

And to top it all off, this delightful image coincides with another rousing radio chorus of _“Rule Britannia! Britannia rule the waves!”_ that has him shouting, “For god’s sake, can’t we turn that bloody thing off!”

Dropping his head into his hands to block out the concerned stares he knows he’s attracting, he hears Freddie utter. “Sorry, dear, I should’ve done it the moment this wretched song came on.“

But it’s too late, for even as he speaks the song begins to fade out, replaced by a slow lulling flute that sounds so ethereally unlike any other piece Brian has heard in recent memory that it immediately has his attention. Raising his head, he watches a similarly captivated Roger hold his hand out.

“Wait! Turn it up. I think I know this.”

Obligingly, Freddie leans over to twist the corresponding dial, just in time for the muffled voice of a woman to sing, _“There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover… Tomorrow, just you wait and see…”_

“Oh,” Freddie freezes, hand still poised over the volume.

_“There’ll be love and laughter, and peace ever after… Tomorrow, when the world is free…"_

It’s not exactly a far cry from the usual patriotic drivel they’re force fed every night. But it’s unusually sensitive. Tender, even. Melancholy despite the optimistic nature of the lyrics, and so relatably wistful in its delivery.

For a moment no one moves. The four of them frozen in position, equal parts captivated and stunned. It can’t be from the same vault the BBC pulls the majority of their music from. It’s too human, too sincere.

“Well…” Freddie chuckles nervously, hand still paused over the dial as his gaze flicks from boyfriend to boyfriend. “This is a change of pace.”

John snorts. Pushing himself up off the sofa, he begins gathering up the empty dishes, the faintest quirk of a smile at the edges of his lips when Freddie holds out an arm to him.

“Don’t you want to dance with me, dear?” pouts Freddie. It’s exaggerated enough to just about pass as a joke, but Brian doesn’t think he’s imagining the hurt in the older man’s eyes when John dodges his embrace.

“No.” Sidestepping Freddie’s outstretched arms, he moves to carry their empty plates to the kitchen.

Biting his lip, Freddie glances from the radio to the sofa, to John’s retreating form. He hesitates for a moment before he clears his throat and calls, “Wait for me, dear, I’ll help you with that.”

_“...The shepherd will tend his sheep… The valley will bloom again…”_

With only him and Roger left in the living room, Brian’s imagination is left to run wild, encouraged by the song's evocation of the open fields, wild flowers and bright green pastures he remembers so vividly from his childhood. That’s where the four of them should be; in some little village in another time. With enough water and food and no bigger troubles than whose turn it is to do the vacuuming.

But that’s not where they are. And if the day comes when that time returns, then doubtlessly the four of them will be long gone. Not even buried, probably just dust, the only remnants of their bodies abandoned to rot in the absence of anyone left to bury them. Perhaps that’s why the song has struck such a chord with him; there will be an end to this madness, one way or another. Only he doesn’t believe any of them will be there to see it.

He’s not sure what comes first, the tears or the hot sting of grief. Both of which bring with them a teary haze that has him feeling as if he’s underwater when he hears Roger’s voice in his ear. “See, John’s fine. I told you, you worry too much.”

Knowing that any attempt to conceal his misery would be futile (and perhaps now being past the point of caring anyway) Brian turns to face him.

“Oh, Bri…” Roger’s gaze softens instantly. Reaching out, he takes the physicist's face gently in his hands, fingers brushing the tears away.

“Sorry,” mutters Brian lamely, averting his gaze, anguish now joined by the faintest flush of embarrasment. None of his boyfriends are upset. None of them are this fragile.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Roger shake his head. “It’s alright. Don’t be.”

And it’s this tenderness - this warmth and sincerity that both seems so out of place in such a harsh world and is bound to be ripped away from him by it one way or another - that tips him over the edge from silent weeping into full on sobs. As the hurt washes over him, he’s dimly aware of Roger pulling him into a tight hug, which he in kind returns. Clinging to the blond as though his life depends on it. As if holding any tighter will somehow exorcise the pain.

With time now measured only by his own ragged gasps for breath and the steady warbling of the radio, he’s not sure how much of it passes before he feels another steady pair of hands wrap around his waist, and somewhere above him hears a faint whisper of. “I’ve got him, darling, it’s alright.”

Someone has turned the radio off, leaving a silence broken only by the sound of his own sobs. Much as it had hurt, a small part of him had appreciated the kinship the music had brought. And in its absence he’s left with nothing but the bleak reality of his own misery. It in itself now a solitary emotion, regardless of the presence of his boyfriends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to everyone who wanted to see Freddie and Brian's date, aha I promise you will get to see it at some point later down the line ! As always, stay safe and look after yourselves <3 Oh and thanks to nastally for being my wonderful beta reader :)


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so... remember when about a month ago I said I'd try to update every two weeks? 
> 
> Aha I'm very sorry, this chapter needed some extensive rewrites, and coupled with my upcoming uni deadlines it meant that it took me far longer to finish it than I thought it would. But it's finally done, and I promise I'm going to try and get back on schedule for the next chapter <3 xx Thank you ever so much to everyone who commented on the last update, it means the world to me because I really wasn't sure if this would find an audience.

As a general rule, Roger’s usually not ready to leave laboratory 0004 until five or ten minutes after the evening bell. Where some labourers might be lucky enough to finish directly on the hour, the need to remove his scrubs, religiously disinfect any possible patches of exposed skin, and transfer his day’s findings to the supervisor means that by the time he manages to make it to the Central Gate there’s already a healthy queue forming. As is the case today, where the novel appearance of a corpse at the lab had subsequently kept him on the decontamination floor several minutes longer than usual. 

From his place near the back of the line he slides his pass out of his top pocket, flipping it idly between his fingers as he shifts uncomfortably. A full ten hours on his feet, coupled with the poor posture demanded of working at a laboratory bench, has done nothing for the near constant ache across his spine and shoulders. An ache which isn’t remedied by a subtle arch of his back, which only makes his muscles crackle loudly. 

In the absence of anything better to do, he observes his fellow commuters with a combination of mild amusement and irritation. People are dying in their millions, but despite all that’s happening, here they are… queuing. Granted it’s not as though this a common occurrence outside of the Central District, but still. Roger resents spending the little free time he gets stuck in a queue that is now at a standstill. 

Sighing under his breath he scuffs his feet against the soft tarmac beneath him. It sticks lightly to the base of his shoes, having been softened over the course of the day by the orange glow of the sun. Which coincidentally is now reflecting perfectly off his standard issue tortoiseshells and directly into his eyes. Raising one hand in a futile attempt to shield himself from the bright haze, he squints towards the gate, a curse forming on his lips for whichever idiot has presumably reached the front, only to realise he’s lost his pass along the way. But then something catches his eye. 

Police patrols are far from a rare sight. So much so that for a moment he can’t pinpoint what it was that drew his attention to them. In their navy jackets and shiny black helmets the squadron, although a little ridiculous in their near parodic imitations of a vintage uniform, somehow doesn’t appear quite right. The officers are too still. Their mouths barely moving as their eyes flick up and down the line before coming to rest unmistakably on Roger. 

In an instant his blood runs cold. The fear accompanied by a prematurely defensive resentment that has his entire body tensing because he knows for certain that he’s not guilty. Well, not of any recent crimes, and certainly nothing which he’d call a justified reason to seize him off the street in broad daylight. Surely it’s not him they’re after? 

Sadly, his question is answered when an unusually large man at the front of the group mutters an indiscernible order, and then points unmistakably across the crowd. Directly at Roger.

The biologist's heart jolts with a sudden rush of self righteous adrenaline, which first reminds him that he can’t be arrested - What on earth would Freddie and Brian and John think? - and second helpfully supplies him with every possible reason he has to declare this ridiculous. Don’t they know who he is? Don’t they know how scarce people with his skill sets are? Are minor crimes committed months ago really worthy of decreasing the already strained research teams, stretching the efforts of those who remain even more thinly? Even as his mind whirs he feels his hands clenching into fists. Shoulders squared for a fight, their soreness forgotten. 

As the police leave their station, guns in hand, the crowd begins to shuffle uncomfortably. People are lowering their heads, suddenly deeply invested in the weeds underfoot. No one wants to stand out. But his own stubbornly outraged state of disbelief keeps Roger’s gaze locked onto them as they draw ever closer. 

Several jumbled fragments of a plan tumble through his brain, each failing to find a foothold even as the police keep walking. Five metres. Should he resist them with his fists or his words? Logic says the latter, but the blood rushing red hot between his ears screams for the former. Two metres. He bites his lip, nails digging so hard into his palms that the skin begins to crack. One metre. His heart is pounding so hard in his chest that the force of it is near agonising. 

The sun which had been bothering him since he first left the laboratory is suddenly blocked by the imposing form of the burly man. He’s so tall that Roger’s eyes barely come up to his chest, but despite the angry tremors wracking his body Roger forces himself to look, lips twisting subconsciously into a snarl. Daring the man to make the first move. 

Go on. Try me. 

The man leers down at him. Expression unreadable. All Roger can hear is the hot angry rush of blood between his ears as the millisecond in which the two stare each other down stretches on for an eternity. 

And then…

He’s so roughly pushed aside that he nearly stumbles out of line. A frantic glance over his shoulder reveals that he wasn’t the target, as he’d so readily assumed, but rather the man behind him. 

As he gapes at the scene, Roger lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. Near nauseous with relief, his first reaction as his body tries desperately to catch up with the reality around him is to laugh. He’s so bewilderedly dizzy over how quickly his brain had supplied him with an entire court case’s worth of defenses for a crime he already knew he hadn’t committed that he’s borderline hysteric. But this dies quickly when the air is suddenly filled with the pleas of the police men’s real target.

At first the man just sounds stunned, stumbling over a series of “No, not me. No, no no… God no”’s until he devolves into complete panic, voice pitching higher and higher as he shouts “I swear, there’s been a mistake- Please! I’m begging you! You-You’ve got the wrong man!” 

Roger turns his back, face twisting into a frown. What had he done? Been caught after hours? Tried to escape? Likely something either totally trivial or completely understandable. And why bother arresting him for an offence like that anyway? It’s not as though there’s an abundance of workers. Especially not in this district. Surely they need all the help they can get? 

With each new question Roger feels himself becoming more and more wound up. The anger no longer a product of a self-sustaining survival instinct, but something somehow both more logical and more dangerous. As much as he bemoans the passive uselessness of the BBC, the stupidity of his superiors, and the general nastiness of his current state of existence, these are all survivable annoyances. Of course, it’d be nice if after a day of relentless deadlines and quotas he could go home and enjoy some decent radio, but fundamentally sub par entertainment isn’t going to kill him. 

This though? This isn’t some abstract matter beyond human control or a trivial detail. It’s not a water shortage or rising temperatures or poorly flavoured protein cubes. No, it’s a deliberate decision on the part of those few still in power to penalise the most insignificant of crimes, while demanding more and more of those who remain. 

And there’s something about this specific callousness, this completely unnecessary disregard for human life, which sets Roger’s entire body on fire with its grotesqueness. 

There were very few cars and even fewer rabbits left in Kings Lynn by the time Roger was born. The majority of his formative years he’d been a stranger to the sort of gorey suffering that would become a staple of his young adult life. The first and only time he’d ever encountered roadkill is forever burned into his memory. Clear as day he can recall the rabbit, its head attached to its body only by a few strings of nondescript sinewy flesh. The piercing stare of those vacant eyes. However what he recalls most about the incident isn’t the animal itself, but the compulsion to observe. The grossly captivating air of the mangled creature. Despite his instinctive revulsion, he’d been unable to look away. Looking had felt perverse, but turning away morally unjustifiable. 

Were he in a better state of mind, Roger would remind himself that there’s no point allowing himself to be wound up by things outside of his control. But having already been readied for a fight by the adrenaline coursing through his body, its presence sending tremors of rage through his limbs, he can’t see anything beyond the immediate present. And in the immediate present he’s fucking pissed off. 

Jaw set tightly, he wheels around just in time to watch the police ram a needle into the still struggling man’s neck. Immediately he falls as limp as a ragdoll in their grip. Sagging to the pavement where the police don’t rush to stop him colliding with the warm tarmac, which splits his nose open like an overripe tomato. Blood splatters the weeds by Roger’s ankles as the officers drag his unconscious body upright before lugging it away. 

Equal parts incensed and disgusted, Roger flicks from guard to guard. By pure happenstance he catches the gaze of the large man from earlier, and for a moment they stare each other down across the bloodied dandelions. 

Then the man nods. A brusk, quick gesture that is neither particularly threatening nor sympathetic, but rather a simple acknowledgement of Roger’s presence. Before he turns and leaves. 

In an instant all of Roger’s fury dissipates, leaving behind only a stunned cold dread and the awareness that he must look every part the stupidly irrational, angry teenager he appears on the outside. It’s deeply unsettling. The secure rug of rage has been swiftly pulled out from under him. It’s like going into freefall. 

Around him the inhabitants of the queue are gradually returning to an uneasy silence. Which, Roger’s brain numbly supplies, is amusing in the same way the queue’s very existence is: In an attempt to avoid standing out, all the small talk in the world had been exchanged between these strangers, but now there’s something truly meaningful to discuss no one has anything left to say. 

~~~

Although hardly one to linger on things if he can help it, the icy discomfort elicited by the man’s arrest lingers inside Roger even after he’s safely through the gate and into the underground. 

Forgoing a seat on the train, he finds himself hovering near the doorway. Which he justifies on account of the journey only being two stops, but knows deep down is the result of a deep rooted fear that if he mingles with his fellow passengers then he’ll start to identify familiar pieces inside them. Brian’s mournful gaze. Freddie’s painful thinness. The stoicism that has John evoking a fully grown man as opposed to a fresh-faced young adult. It usually wouldn’t bother him, but still deeply shaken by his earlier ordeal he’s not sure if he particularly wants to deal with that tonight on top of everything else. 

Flicking his identification card once again between his fingers, Roger gives himself a light reprimanding. Evenings are about the comforts of home afterall. The privacy of his own space away from the prying eyes of the world. Damn the government. Having already intruded on his day once he makes a steely decision to not give them the power to ruin his recreational time. No. He pushes away the listless dread encroaching on his mind and forcibly replaces it with a cheery nonchalance.

John had mentioned cheese sauce for dinner this morning, hadn’t he? Powdered yeast coloured yellow in an imitation of the fermented substance none of them have had in years. But it's still hot food, and therefore good enough for Roger, who’s so hungry that at this point he’d attack a protein cube with gusto. 

Hmm. He taps his identification card lightly against the train door. Perhaps next time cheese sauce comes around on the ration rota he should call in a favour with Tim so they can have it with wine. Yes, cheese sauce and wine, he muses, that’d be pleasant. 

His face splits into a smile, chest warming with the memory of the last time they’d had wine. It’d been their anniversary, and despite his misgivings John had become well and truly drunk, and he’d danced with Freddie until the exertion of his first time intoxicated had left him unconscious on the sofa. And Brian had laughed so hard he’d needed to grasp onto the coffee table to stay upright. Gasping for breath as his drawn face had lit up with amusement. Brian had been… 

Roger swallows, digging his nails into the flimsy plastic of his pass in a futile effort to once again dismiss the cold swell of unease. 

It’s not as though Brian isn’t getting better, he reminds himself. Last night’s incident with the radio aside, he’s been crying less, laughing more. Granted he’s been asking more anxious questions too, sidling up to Roger nearly every five minutes, panic in his eyes as he near begs for a reassurance he knows the blond can’t give him.

There’s a sudden tight constriction in Roger’s chest. He tries, really, he tries to handle Brian with as much patience as he can. But… Well, he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t frustrating. Because at the very least he understands John’s gallows humour (frequently indulging in it himself), and can recognise the merit in Freddie’s chipper denial, but Brian’s never ending cycle of mournful dread remains an unsolvable enigma. 

He can sympathise, but never empathise. If he were Brian…

Well that’s the issue. If he were Brian he’d never be in that position, because the moment he felt himself spiralling he’d grab onto one of his many lifelines (whether that be his boyfriends, music, or just the simple pleasures of still being alive) and pull for all he was worth. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, let his emotions fester in such a manner. His penchant for survival would prevent it from ever happening. If he were Brian he wouldn’t _be _Brian.__

__Roger rubs his temples, fully aware he’s currently doing a poor job of reigning his feelings in. But it’s true; although acutely aware that Brian wouldn’t be this way by choice, deep down he knows that there’s no helping his boyfriend unless the man first learns to help himself._ _

__He’s not aware that he’s biting his lip until he tastes metal on his tongue. Wiping away the blood with a sigh, Roger again gives himself a metaphorical shake. He’ll cross that bridge if and when he comes to it. There’s no point fretting about what he’s going to do with Brian unless the issue once more becomes a pressing one._ _

__For now he’s just going to enjoy his evening. As he watches the dull darkness flashing by the window (he thinks about home), a glimmer of warmth sparks in his chest at all the possibilities. The day’s not over yet. Its defining moment doesn’t have to be the arrest, nor any of the anxieties that had followed, he reminds himself._ _

__~~~_ _

__Being one to take pleasures where he can get them, Roger would usually relish in the satisfaction of being right. Usually. The exception being occasions such as this, wherein his assumptions and desires backfire in near unprecedented ways._ _

__Had he known back on the train that his efforts would be a waste, he likely wouldn’t have bothered bringing his low mood back up again - settling instead on a stoic resignation to grant him the strength to deal with the next harrowing inconvenience - but he did, so he gets to experience the pleasure of it crashing down around him when he enters the living room to find a crying Freddie._ _

__Hunched over on the sofa, long curly hair framing his red rimmed eyes, he doesn’t immediately notice Roger’s presence. All aches from his day forgotten in an instant, Roger’s immediate instinct is to drop to his knees beside the sofa and take the older man's face in his hands. His fingers itch to pull Freddie tightly to his chest, away from whoever or whatever has dared to hurt him, but this coupled with the sudden nauseating layer of dumbfounded guilt (Had he not spent the entire journey home fretting about Brian?) has him stunned to inaction._ _

__If he’d been held up in the queue any longer he’d likely have missed this outburst of emotion all together._ _

__“Roger!” Freddie gasps. Having finally noticed Roger lingering frozen in the doorway, he’s immediately wiping at his eyes, as if it does anything to disguise the thickness in his voice. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.” The smile plastered so unconvincingly on his face would be funny if it weren’t so sad._ _

__“No, no. It’s fine.” As soon as the words leave his lips, Roger’s cringing at how ridiculous they sound. Forcing himself to move, he takes a tentative seat beside Freddie on the sofa. Again, there’s that instinct to pull him into an embrace, but so rarely does the facade of optimistic denial crack that he’s almost afraid Freddie will break if he tries to touch him. “What’s wrong?”_ _

__Freddie fans himself weakly, gaze clearly and deliberately averted to the radio. “Nothing, nothing. It’s just the heat. It makes my eyes water.”_ _

__Reaching out tentatively, Roger gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. And then, when the gesture isn’t met with any resistance, he chances a smile. “Mine too. I, uh, I can’t say it’s ever made my entire face all puffy and swollen like I’ve been-” The joke dies on his lips when he catches Freddie’s scowl, the older man’s teary eyes surprisingly venomous as he shrugs Roger off and stands up._ _

__And for all the time Roger had spent on the train, reiterating to himself all the reasons why it’s unfair to be angry at those around him for feelings beyond their control, he can’t help but feel the spark of rage he’d felt earlier reignite. Of course Freddie can’t help being upset - everything is remarkably shite after all - but he can help making a big show of it, and he can certainly help lashing out at Roger for so much as daring to try and comfort him._ _

__“For god’s sake” Roger scoffs, his anger driving him to his feet “If you’re going to be like that about it then you might as well keep your damn feelings to yourself like-”_ _

__“Christ Roger, I said it’s nothing!” Freddie wheels around, the anger he’s aiming for undermined by the crack in his voice that reveals an unmistakable tone of hurt._ _

__Immediately, Roger’s irritation caves to a cool self-disgust. Had he really been about to suggest Freddie keep his feelings to himself? Hadn’t that been the very thing they were arguing about? The sense of smallness he’d felt so acutely when the officer had nodded at him returns, leaving him wincing at his own callousness as his cheeks start to burn with shame._ _

__A beat passes._ _

__Roger scuffs a foot awkwardly against the floor. Then he clears his throat, the words quieter and clumsier than he’d like. “Sorry. I was only trying to help.”_ _

__“Apology accepted,” replies Freddie. Only his gaze is hard and anything but forgiving. There’s a tense moment where it seems like he might be inclined to storm off. Then he turns back to the wall with a muttered,“The heat might make my eyes water but it turns you into an irritable priss.”_ _

__Unable to help himself, Roger opens his mouth to protest, but no retort comes. Even in the dim light he can still see the slight quiver of emotion in Freddie’s shoulders, and the return of his earlier guilt reminds him that he doesn’t want to fight. Whatever it is that’s upsetting Freddie, it’s not worth dragging him down even further to discover it. The officer from earlier crosses Roger’s mind. The world is full of terrible people and terrible things, there’s no point in being one of them, especially not in his own house._ _

__He crosses the room tentatively, hesitating before slowly slinking his arms around Freddie’s waist._ _

__“Fred…” The older man flinches but doesn’t pull away when Roger perches his chin on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” Roger repeats, “I was only trying to help.”_ _

__“Hm.” Freddie gives a non committal huff, arms crossed tightly over his chest._ _

__“Oi, I mean it,” insists Roger. Now slightly hunched over in order to keep a grip on his boyfriends miniscule waist, he can once again feel the weight of the days labour pulsing through his muscles. Stifling a groan, he nuzzles his face into Freddie’s neck, lips brushing against the warm skin as he murmurs: “It’s hard not to be an irritable priss when you spend ten hours a day in a glorified morgue.”_ _

__From above him there’s a light snort, but it’s accompanied by a cool pair of hands dipping down to clasp gently at Roger’s. “Try spending ten hours as a glorified nanny,” replies Freddie, “See how irritable that makes you.”_ _

__His admittance of his role in their argument, however subtle, is his own way of both apologising and forgiving._ _

__Safe in the glow of the latter, Roger closes his eyes. Taking a moment for himself to breathe in Freddie’s reassuring warmth before mumbling “Nah, I’ll take working with corpses over working with children any day.”_ _

__~~~_ _

__“Does Freddie seem upset to you?” From his position beside the makeshift drum kit, Brian frowns. His voice is impassive, but his hands worrying at the already scratched neck of the guitar clutched delicately to his chest betrays the anxiety behind the question._ _

__Roger twirls the twig in his hand thoughtfully, eyeing Freddie up across the room. In the forty or so minutes they’d had to turn the living room upside down in preparation for their weekly “”rehearsal”” he’s done an impressive job of erasing any obvious signs of distress from his face. In fact, with his head thrown back in laughter at whatever witty remark John’s just thrown his way he looks downright good. So much so that if Roger were asked to point out any weaknesses in his facade of stability he doubts he could do it, but then perhaps Brian’s nervous disposition prevents certain details from passing him by. Or maybe it was a lucky guess._ _

__Regardless, if Roger tells Brian the truth then he’ll fuss, but he’ll do it in such a _Brian _way that he’ll only irritate Freddie, who will of course snap back which in return will make Brian cry and… Roger nearly shudders at the thought. That’d be an awful situation for all parties involved. Besides, as selfish as it sounds, he’d rather not have all the effort he’d expended setting up his own impromptu kit of repurposed saucepans, a modified sheet of scrap metal and the end of a rubbish bin stuffed with pillows, only to have it all go to waste.___ _

____Instead, he shrugs, “He called me an irritable priss earlier. So I wouldn’t say upset. Probably just in a foul mood. You know how he feels about his job. He probably just had an off day.” It’s not exactly a lie. Just enough of the truth to avoid arousing unnecessary suspicion._ _ _ _

____Not that it matters. Brian’s attention has remained firmly on Freddie and, (a little rudely) decidedly not on the reassurance he had originally asked for._ _ _ _

____A little affronted, Roger prods him lightly in the hip with a drumstick. “Don’t make me say it.”_ _ _ _

____“I know, I know.” Brian rolls his eyes, again the emotion he’s trying to convey undermined by his fingers continuing to twitch nervously down the frets of his beloved heirloom. “I worry too much.”_ _ _ _

____“Damn right you do,” nods Roger firmly. Aware that he’s only able to assert this point so thoroughly because it’s true. If what he was he saying to Brian an overt lie he’d doubtless feel worse about the whole affair, but even so… As he watches Brian return to Freddie’s side he can’t help but feel guilty. Perhaps he should’ve said something. After all, in years Brian’s far more of an adult than he himself is. But then again… He reminds himself that as with the matter of John’s health yesterday, sometimes it’s better to shield people than force them to confront an uncomfortable reality._ _ _ _

____A point which John is surely proving by virtue of simply being here. Face flushed with the colour it’d lacked yesterday and eyes bright as he slings his homemade bass (this too a glamorized pile of scrap) over his shoulder, his exuberance solidifies that his exhaustion yesterday had been nothing to worry about. Not that Roger had really believed he was on the brink of imminent death - as a biologist he’s sure that people who’re actively dying are a bit more obvious about it beyond napping a little excessively - but he had been curiously concerned. More so than he would’ve admitted to anyone else in the house, or even perhaps to himself._ _ _ _

____But watching John’s face split into a grin that’s all gapped teeth, his eyes scrunched shut in an amusement that can only have been sparked by one of his own jokes, Roger knows he made the right decision in keeping his worries to himself. And by extension he feels more assured in his choice to do the same today._ _ _ _

____An abrupt clap of hands pulls Roger out of his thoughts._ _ _ _

____Stood atop the sofa, Freddie waves his hands._ _ _ _

____“Children!” He commands. “Come on, the evening’s not getting younger and neither am I.” He jumps down, landing nimbly and with a slightly too pleased with himself smile that’s miles away from the forced grimace he’d given Roger earlier. “What should we start with? Should we start with Hello Mary Lou?”_ _ _ _

____John shrugs, head tilting to one side as he slings his bass higher up on his shoulders and firmly into his hands. “Might as well.”_ _ _ _

____Nodding in silent agreement, Roger readjusts his position. In an ideal world he wouldn’t be trying to play percussion with nothing but the edge of a coffee table as a stool, and literal rubbish for a drum, but since the alternative is no music at all he tries not to complain too much. Although, the wooden corner is hardly an ideal seat, and his already sore muscles won’t thank him for it tomorrow._ _ _ _

____He’s still fidgeting gingerly when on Freddie’s count they launch into the song. As expected they sound more than a little rough around the edges (especially on the percussion side, unfortunately) but the poor quality of their instruments hardly matters as they plough forward. Even before they’ve reached the final chorus, Roger’s finding himself becoming lost in the rhythm, all thoughts of discomfort or morality paling beside the reassuring need to follow each beat with another._ _ _ _

____From Mary-Lou they move seamlessly into Tutti Fruity, continuing after that with several more classics. Each one more simplistically suited to instrumental and cheerily inane than the last, and only stopping when, in attempting to pose dramatically atop the coffee table midway through Baby I Don’t Care, Freddie falls arse over tit onto John, and puts a hysterical but premature end to their weekly rehearsal._ _ _ _

____When he’s finally stopped laughing so hard he feels as though his sides are going to split, Roger pushes himself awkwardly up from behind the drum kit. Unlike as per usual, the subsequent cracking in his muscles sends a reassuring ache rippling through his body. It’s one thing to be exhausted, but there’s a fervent satisfaction that comes from knowing his pain isn’t from working for some official who couldn’t care either which way if he lives or dies, but from doing something purely for his own enjoyment._ _ _ _

____The sentiment appears to be a shared one throughout the room. Now he’s finished apologising profusely to John (a few backhanded remarks of “But you _were _standing right underneath me, dear" notwithstanding) Freddie’s beaming wildly. Flitting from person to person to compliment an impromptu riff or unexpected cymbal crash, to occasionally just stopping dead still in the middle of the room and repeating, “We actually sounded fantastic! Fantastic, my darlings!” as if he can’t quite believe it.___ _ _ _

______Roger catches John’s eye, and sees reflected in the younger man’s face the same warm, bemused adoration he feels whenever Freddie’s like this. Of course they all enjoy the music. Having relinquished any dreams of ever getting to play again once he’d been forced to relocate to London, Roger’s just happy at being able to drum at all. But Freddie? The way he lights up after every session is indicative of the fact that for him it's something else._ _ _ _ _ _

______And for all his post drumming joy, Roger feels himself deflate a little as he watches Freddie whirl around. If only he could be that happy all the time. Or even most of the time._ _ _ _ _ _

______As if aware of Roger’s shifting mood, Brian chuckles. “Considering none of us can have heard any of those in the last decade, I’d say we don't sound too bad.” He’s reaching for humour, but a distant glaze has come over his face, revealing the remark to be more of a lament of their wasted talents than a joke. Delicately lifting his guitar off his shoulders and carefully into his hands he adds, “Better than half the shit on the radio at any rate,” with this soft murmur addressed more to the instrument itself than anyone else._ _ _ _ _ _

______In an instant the joyous mood of the room is extinguished, replaced with a hushed tension in which everyone is suddenly poised for disaster. John’s lowering his bass. Freddie’s smile has dropped to a worried frown. All of them ready to leap to Brian’s aid if - or more likely _when _\- he breaks down in tears.___ _ _ _ _ _

________Brian raises his eyes from his instrument, apparently having not noticed the change in atmosphere. When he realises all eyes are on him, he blushes, and then clears his throat. “We should try and recreate that piece they had on the other night,” he says slowly, “That was nice.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Um.” Roger’s so surprised that he vocalises as much before he can stop himself. Which unfortunately means he’s now indavertantly nominated himself to explain to Brian why he’s being gaped at as if he’d just suggested they all take a holiday to France. “Uh… Are you sure? Only, isn’t that a bit…” Without both the words and the willingness to articulate what he means, he trails off. Leaving Brian to frown at him in bewildered silence._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________But even if he lacked the tact to say “Unless this is some sort of cathartic masochism I’ve no idea why you’d want us to try performing that” Roger doesn’t think he could. He’s too baffled. First Freddie and his crying, and now Brian. Of course, Brian actively wanting to do something other than worry is a good thing, but there’s only so many impromptu out-of-character surprises Roger can take in one evening._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Looking from one to the other, he can’t help but wonder what on earth is going on in either of their heads. If they’d only be so courteous to tell him then perhaps he’d have a better understanding of how to help them._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Then again, as he’d realised earlier, people can’t be helped unless they want to be helped, even if understanding that doesn’t eliminate the compulsive itch to do so._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________But then, surely the fact that he can’t reach into either of their heads and forcibly rewire their brains (or more importantly, the fact that he can’t magically fix the world) doesn’t mean he should just sit by and do nothing?_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________The matter of the man from earlier returns to him. Both a reminder of why he ought to keep his head down, and yet..._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________No longer feeling like a chastised child, the nod he’d received now sparks a feeling of rebellion. If he’s going to be subjected to the same ridiculous rules for the rest of his life then he might as well see how far he can bend them. For Brian and Freddie’s benefit if not his own._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________The remaining rational part of his brain, the part that would very much like to survive for as long as possible, supplies that this is a poor idea. But then the image of Freddie as he’d been earlier, tearful and frightened, crosses his mind and suddenly he can’t dissuade himself from the merit of such a concept no matter how hard he tries. Already it’s taken root inside him, a private piece of gleeful sunshine that fills him with a sickly delight. Granted, the details are hazy, but there has to be something he can do to make them all happy._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________It wouldn’t even necessarily have to be illegal. Just borderline unacceptable._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________A way of aberrating the rules._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________And, although blissfully unaware of this in the present, over the course of the next few weeks, a plan to do just that pieces itself together in Roger’s mind._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha I know John hasn't been much of a presence in the last few chapters, but I promise he's lying low for a reason ;) idk, just bear in mind that Roger and Brian don't always see everything that's going on xx
> 
> As usual huge thanks to nastally for being my beta <3 I hope you guys enjoyed this and I hope you're all staying safe :) xx

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Tikini for motivating me to work on this again, emmaandorlando for listening to me ramble about it wayyy back in August, and Nastally for beta reading <3 You're all amazing xx
> 
> Stay safe, wash your hands, and look after the people you love xx <3


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